


certain rights

by sear



Series: Sansa in Dorne [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dorne, Dorne makes everything better, Dornish culture, F/F, Female Friendship, Feminism, Sansa-centric, Time Travel, gender equality, independent sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sear/pseuds/sear
Summary: A Dornishman would have been the shamed one, for the mere attempt at assault. But it was a Northern bannerman, and now Alayne feels everything spinning out of control.





	certain rights

Dear, sweet gods. Robb. Dead Robb is alive. This is the oldest Alayne has seen her brother. He is a man now, grown tall and strong, the silly scruff on his face replaced by a real beard. There is a woman at his side. Alayne doesn’t recognise her. A wife? A betrothed? Then there are the others, familiar names and sometimes faces: Umber, Karstark, Bolton. Alayne keeps her pleasantly neutral court mask on her face and curtsies along with Arianne.

The Northern lords are given horses for the trip to Sunspear, and then accommodations and a chance to rest upon arrival. It is early evening. Everyone had ridden through the smelting-oven of Dornish afternoon. Rest and refreshments before the evening welcoming feast is sure to be appreciated.

The welcoming feast gives Alayne more opportunities to observe the newly arrived guests. The woman at Robb’s side turns out to be Alys Stark, formerly Karstark, his wife of three months. Apparently, their parents had wanted a northern marriage for Robb, Alayne muses. It is a wise choice in many ways, she thinks, with the newly announced independence of the North, and considering Eddard Stark’s own southern marriage. 

Alayne picks up other tidbits from the dinner conversation. Dead Arya, alive Arya, her wild little sister, has been fostered to the Mormonts of Bear Island. And speaking of sisters, she has a new one, a little sister that she has never seen – will never see. Minisa Stark, recently turned two years. It is so strange to think of.

Once alone with Arianne, Alayne sags. She feels exhausted from the tension that has been mounting ever since she heard of the Northern alliance. And then, nothing. Nothing happened. No one recognised her. Alayne feels giddy and gathers Arianne up in an embrace, spins her around and kisses her. Arianne laughs with her.

After that first meeting Alayne relaxes somewhat, but remains on her guard in the company of the Northern lords. They are after all familiar with Catelyn Stark and her Tully red hair that Alayne has inherited. But she is Alayne Stone to them, Princess Arianne Martell’s bastard paramour, tanned, free with her opinions, Dornish to the bone despite her Vale surname.

Her ruse still holds.

***

It is strange how nothing much changes with the arrival of the Northern delegation. Alayne still sews, still spends time with Obara, Nym and Tyene, still tells stories to the littlest Sand Snakes, still kisses Arianne in the increasingly cool Dornish evenings. Once again, she is surprised that she remains included in the council chambers. It is her and Arianne, Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn, sometimes Ellaria, a couple of other Dornish advisors and Queen Daenerys and her entourage from before. Now they are joined by the Northern delegation, though they are noticeably lacking women. There is Robb, Lords Bolton, Karstark, and Umber.

The first council had started awkwardly, with the Northern lords slow to speak of details until lord Bolton had asked when the women were to leave so that they could get down to business. Alayne had stiffened at that, and Arianne put her hand on her arm. Then Queen Daenerys coolly asked if that included her. Alayne had to duck her head as her court mask failed and a smirk overtook her face.

***

Women in Dorne have certain rights that those in the other Kingdoms lack. The right to hold property and to inherit a title, if they are the oldest – bless Queen Nymeria for that! – the right to take lovers and to marry as they please. Of course, marriages among the noble-born remain mostly about alliances and bargains; but at least daughters are treated just as sons in the face of that sometimes mercenary jockeying for power. Part of this freedom is reflected in Dornish dress. If it is hot, or rather when it is hot, Dornish people of both sexes dress scandalously light in the eyes of other Westerosi. But why dress like a Silent Sister, when you own yourself?

Sometimes this custom leads to misunderstandings with other Westerosi, such as the one Alayne is coming upon now. She has gone looking for Doree, whom she sent to fetch cool mint tea and iced vegetable soup for a light siesta meal. The last few days have been sweltering, more reminiscent of Summer than the early Winter they have now. Both Doree and Alayne are dressed for the heat, in thin silks with plunging backs.

“Ser,” Alayne hears Doree say calmly from around a corner in the corridor. “I have no interest in you. Let me be on my way.” 

Alayne smiles at that. Dear, sweet, blunt Doree. Alayne, born outside of Dorne, also hears what Doree doesn’t say, what Doree isn’t even thinking. Doree offers no excuse. Just – I am not interested, please leave, calm and unworried. Why should she be worried, after all? Sweet Doree has never feared men for men have never made her fear them.

A maid from any other Kingdom would have added an excuse, a protest – I have a sweetheart, I am married, my mistress is expecting me. They would all have meant the same: I belong to someone else, I am protected. (I need to be protected from you. My word isn’t enough.) In Dorne she doesn’t need to.

But then-

“You dress more immodestly than any whore I have ever had. Quit that, girl, anyone can see what you are about. Just come with me,” the man says, and oh! Oh. A Northern accent. Alayne hears flesh meeting flesh and feels a frisson of something go through her. No. That is a lie, it is fear. She hurries.

“Unhand me, ser. I said that I am not interested,” Doree says with more emphasis, still fearless. There is a great clatter and a muffled grunt. Alayne rounds the corner and sees the Northern man roughly holding Doree to him, his mouth mashed to hers, his fingers digging into her bare back. Then he stumbles back and doubles over. There is blood on his face and he groans, clutching at his privates. He straightens and steps towards Doree again, towering over her.

Alayne strides forward and pulls Doree behind her. She meets his enraged eyes. A Bolton bannerman, she thinks. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

“Leave,” Alayne says. “Leave now, we’ll chalk this up to a misunderstanding and I won’t have you gelded.”

“Another whore,” the man spits out and comes at them. Time stills and Alayne does exactly as Obara has shown her. She slashes with her dagger, kicks out and then grabs Doree and runs. She doesn’t stop until she gets to Arianne.

***

It had been a lark at first, Obara teaching her a few things to defend herself. They were so warlike, the oldest Sand Snakes. Alayne would never be like them, but these days she carried a dagger confidently and while the sheath was covered in black silk and gold thread, the hilt was wrapped in leather to give a good grip. She kept the blade sharp and well oiled, but at the very edge there was the sheen of something iridescent, that had an acrid tang to the nose. A gift from Tyene Sand. Alayne would only ever need a scratch to defend herself.

Alayne knew she had done more than scratch the Bolton bannerman. That was what had her worried now, wrapped in Arianne’s arms as she was. His death would complicate things. Had it been a Dornishman -or a woman, for that matter – the assault would have been easily resolved. Doree’s dishevelled clothing, bruised lips and bloodied nails along with Alayne’s testimony, brought to Princess Arianne Martell, or any other Martell, would have sufficed. The severity of his punishment would then have been dependent on whether he apologised to Doree, whether she accepted it, and precedent. Most likely, he would have owed Doree recompense, there would have been some corporeal punishment and he would have been forbidden to ever approach Doree again. A Dornishman would have been the shamed one, for the mere attempt at assault. But it was a Northern bannerman, and now Alayne feels everything spinning out of control.

Alayne tucks her head into Arianne’s shoulder. It might look silly, seeing how she is so much taller than her lover, but she doesn’t care. Beside her Doree is a little shaken, but mostly indignant. Alayne still holds her hand from within Arianne’s embrace, and is glad, so glad, that Doree isn’t afraid. Because Alayne is, but she is also angry. How dare they come here and break the laws of Mother Dorne?

***

Ordinarily, Doree would speak for herself in a situation like this. But this has also become a matter of politics, so while she will present her testimony, Alayne and Arianne will also speak for her.

Prince Doran is presiding over the meeting. They are all sitting at the round council table and Alayne is grateful that she doesn’t have to stand like some supplicant. The Northern lords present, Robb and Lord Bolton, look grave. The Bolton bannerman is pale and looks sick, but he will live since Alayne was quick to send word to the Maester of what poison she had on her dagger.

If the Northern lords think to get some kind of concession out of this, they are sorely mistaken. Their man is entirely in the wrong. While his death would have been unfortunate, it would have redeemed any shame of his. Of course, the rest of Westeros doesn’t see it like that, but Prince Doran is adamant.

Then the Bolton bannerman, the would-be rapist, says something so disparaging and offensive that Alayne who until successfully had clung to her calm, can’t help but to flare up. She stands, her chair falling behind her.

“We are free women of Dorne. You come here seeking an alliance. How dare you? You have no right!” Alayne’s court mask has cracked utterly. She takes a calming breath and curtsies to Prince Doran and Arianne. “My prince, princess, excuse me.” She leaves.

Behind her she hears someone else getting up and following. She doesn’t care. She stalks towards the gardens, needing space. Someone catches her arm and spins her around. Robb. He stares at her, wild-eyed, but remains silent.

“Lord Robb?” Alayne prompts.

“…Sansa? Sister?”

**Author's Note:**

> Working title: "oops I did it again"...   
> Enjoy! And leave kudos if you did :D


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